


The last he walked

by munchingtin



Series: The way we empty the oceans [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Abduction, Alien Biology, Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Culture, Alien Invasion, Alien Technology, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depictions of Illness, Gen, Graphic Description, Human Experimentation, It Gets Worse, Matt Holt-centric, POV Matt Holt, Prisoner Matt Holt (Voltron), Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24914341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/munchingtin/pseuds/munchingtin
Summary: Matt could not see the druid, but the Galra must have been given some sort of signal. The soldiers hardhandedly grabbed his arms and hoisted him up again, bringing him further into the large room. They reached another hallway, so Matt figured he must have been brought to a completely different wing in the ship (or facility) he was in.The thought brought nothing but dread as the reality of the situation was catching up to him: he was brought to a private wing for druids.
Series: The way we empty the oceans [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1802896
Kudos: 8





	The last he walked

The way the guards handled Matt was telling for their society. Matt figured the Galra soldiers were all the same in that regard: rough and painstakingly efficient. He was held up by his arms, each one tightly gripped by the claw of the Galra. They were, by far, taller than Matt, resulting in him semi hanging in their hold. They refused to lower their arms for Matt’s comfort, even though Matt had asked them to. Kindly, even.

They had, predictably, ignored him.

Matt struggled to walk properly on his own, and he was lifted too high up for him to reach the ground with his feet. Though he was aware of the burn of his arms at all times, he only allowed himself to calmly acknowledge the fact before filing it away in the back of his mind.

Matt felt a tightness in his chest that kept him from fully raising his head. His gaze was locked on to the floor, which was irregularly coloured with scratches and minor fabrication errors within the metal. They moved too fast and the marks passed by in a blur.

Matt’s eyes involuntarily crossed when a sense of vertigo hit him, so he closed them altogether with a groan.

He tried to remember how many corners they had turned, but he could not concentrate. When he finally noticed that he had spent nearly half a minute pondering over whether they just turned left or right, he knew there was no point of mentally mapping the ship out. If he was still on a ship, that is, and not on another planet-bound facility.

Matt had been moved around a lot lately. At first, he suspected because the Galra had simply not known what to do with him. After Shiro had injured his leg, the Galra must have figured he was unsuitable for the arena.

Just watching Matt get killed by the first contender to come along was not the sort of amusement the Galra had in mind.

As a prisoner, Matt had been deemed too expendable for extensive care. When he had not healed properly on his own, they could not place him in a working camp. The reality was that humans were ill-suited for manual labour on the extra-terrestrial ground.

Matt especially, who had haplessly accepted that the injury was going to be a permanent thorn in his side: that he was crippled for life.

Matt had been to various colonies, in clear, non-transparent attempts to get him to at least be of use in some way. He had been assigned various odd jobs and worked alongside a wide arrange of alien species.

(Aliens! He had marvelled about extra-terrestrial life for a long time, to most of the aliens’ discomfort. But, eventually, the novelty had worn off.)

The Galra had placed him with a group of alien researches, but not long enough for Matt to memorize any of their names. As it turned out, Matt was too restless for the Galra to handle. After

watching Shiro being carried to the stage of the arena, Matt had little love left for cowering and doing what he was told.

The Galra were not as numerous as they had initially appeared to Matt. Most of the prisoners and scientists were watched by sentries, which were, at times, hilariously easy to get passed. Even with his injury, it had not been too difficult for Matt to sneak by a sentry for some supplies for other prisoners. Granted, it was nothing much. Nevertheless, the additional nutrition or blanket was always welcomed by the prisoners, and the items were relatively easy to hide with so many different species in such a small cell, huddled together.

It was not to be, however. Their living conditions on the unfinished research-site were far from humane, and the mixed arrangement of species carelessly put together was a breeding ground for bacteria and viruses to pass on to one another.

Matt had had mucus running from his eyes at one point, which had made him feel miserable. But it had not been until an adult (as opposed to a child, who were not as useful) had died that the Galra decided to select the planet’s prisoners based on similar immune systems.

This had caused the blankets and bottles to be discovered. After a short interrogation, the aliens had quickly pointed at Matt. Matt wanted to be angry, but he could not blame the prisoners for selling him out.

After all, Matt had unwittily admitted he recognized the symptoms of the flu in an alien child. (He reasoned the latent virus within him had become active due to stress). The species was not familiar with a sickness that could penetrate their particularly resilient immune system and did not understand that Matt could not stop something that had come from him.

The child had not made it.

The popularity that Matt had earned with his disobedience had vanished faster than left-over desserts in the Holt family's fridge.

The Galra determined Matt was unsuitable for being their scientist.

When the Galra had come to that conclusion, Matt figured that would be the end of him. Instead, he had been downgraded to a regular lab-rat for Galran scientists. Interchanged through various labs, Matt had witnessed and undergone his fair share of horrors.

He suspected it was because the Galra were at least curious enough about his species to keep him alive. They had tried to make sense of what he was - what made him tick - but he was not informed of the nature of the tests and experiments conducted on him.

Something had to have changed, however. Private transport was a luxury: one the Empire did not grant a prisoner very often.

(In fact, it had only happened once: when Matt had been at risk for contaminating other prisoners again).

Exceptions aside, the way Matt had been collected from his previous cell had been unorthodox at the very least. At best, the act had been suspicious.

In the here and now, the guards released his arms simultaneously. Caught by surprise, Matt did not react quickly enough for his legs to support the full force of his weight and his knees buckled beneath him. Matt fell forward on all fours and hissed through his teeth at the sharp pain that shot through his crippled leg.

Matt had not realised they had already reached their destination and he concluded he must have blacked out for a short time. He brought a leg forward and placed his hands on his thigh to push himself up.

A laser gun was charged next to his ear.

Matt froze and slowly turned his head to the left. He looked at the gun before warily glaring up at the guard to which it belonged. The guard was wearing a helmet, so Matt could not see their expression above their mouth. The lips were pursed in a straight line, so Matt confidently guesstimated the guard was not amused. It would seem Matt was not going anywhere while under his guards’ watch.

So Matt froze in his crouched position, belatedly realising that it looked like he was genuflecting. He regretted it, but he did not dare move when he realised who had been waiting for them to arrive.

A druid.

Matt’s throat was too dry to swallow in a short burst of panic, and he could not stop his eyes from looking down once more. That alone was a dead giveaway of his anxiety. Matt could not bring himself to feel too stupid for the fact. He knew what druids were capable of. He had seen and heard about them often enough to recognize their semireligious importance to the Galra. A noble, separate faction of the Empire who served under their High Priestess.

Matt had learned a lot from the small bits he picked up from the Galra around him. For as disciplined as the guards were, not even they could help themselves but worriedly whisper amongst one another when a druid passed their proximity.

The gun was removed from his temple. From the corner of his eyes, Matt saw the Galra standing at attention just like the guard’s colleague and saluted by bringing a fist to the chest. “Reporting in. Prisoner ID UN-3972.”

Matt could not see the druid, but the Galra must have been given some sort of signal. The soldiers hardhandedly grabbed his arms and hoisted him up again, bringing him further into the large room. They reached another hallway, so Matt figured he must have been brought to a completely different wing in the ship (or facility) he was in.

The thought brought nothing but dread as the reality of the situation was catching up to him: he was brought to a private wing for druids.

It bade nothing good for his fate and Matt felt like a bucket of ice-cold water was dumped over his head.

The druid, who led the party, glanced back over the shoulder before diverting his gaze once more.

The group stopped in front of a cell, the familiarity bringing a misplaced sense of relief, and Matt was pushed inside. He saw it coming this time and managed to only stumble a bit. Matt turned around, only to see the door of his new cell slide closed.

An echo of ‘vrepit sa’ reached his ears through the walls. The guards marched away in perfect synchronisation. Matt could not help himself but think of Iverson, and how eager the man would be to achieve the same level of professionalism in the Garrison.

Matt would gladly salute him properly (once) if it only meant that he was back on Earth.

The druid did not enter his cell, unlike what Matt had assumed would happen. Instead, he seemed to be left to his own devices for the time being. The druid most likely had a project to get to, elsewhere. He was undoubtedly busy: as they always seemed to be.

It unsettled Matt how silently these Galra moved.

Matt took the opportunity of respite to look around.

His cell was bare. It was not out of the norm, per se, but this room was worryingly empty. There were no blankets or any sign of furniture. There was a separate corner, which was shielded from the door, but only just enough to barely pass as functional privacy. In the said corner was the simple lavatory set-up he was used to. Usually he shared this space with other prisoners, but he was alone for the time being.

Seeing nothing else to do, he relieved himself and then sat down in the opposite corner: the one furthest away from the door. Matt did not deceive himself. No matter how far away he sat, whoever would be coming for him next could not be stopped. Regardless, he felt better in whatever act of defiance he could afford.

He could not afford a lot.

He rolled up the sleeves of his prisoner’s garment and stared at the scarring on his arms. Markings left after the experiments, some of which he barely recalled. Matt knew the scars spread further over his whole body, but most were located on his torso.

It was not comparable to what Shiro saved him from. And - God – he did not even want to think about what his father must be going through whilst he sat idly in the cell. He hoped he was with alien scientists.

Because Matt had discovered that most scientists were universally amusing. At the very least, his father would get a kick out of it.

Matt lowered his sleeves and curled up with his back against the wall. He stared at the door, too exhausted and sore to move. Sore from routine stretching, that is. Exercise, he found, was a good way to stay sane during the moments when he was alone, seldom as they were. Though, as the minutes continued to pass, he began to think that was about to change.

In the first few months of his captivity, when he was still stationed at working camps, he also had been put together with a group of prisoners. There had been aliens from various conquered planets to exchange stories with, to encourage and to comfort.

Until the Galra realised the morale was too high in their particular cell.

They had disabled the universal translator for their area. Matt had been surrounded by snarls, growls, howls, spats, and lullabies he could not understand. He had never felt so alone in a group before.

In the end, that too came to an end. Matt had grown used to the crowded cells, so when he had been moved to his first private box he had almost missed the foreign (and, admittedly, at times terrifying) sounds.

It had not been an improvement. Not at all.

Matt did not want to think about it anymore.

The alternative train of thought brought him back to Shiro, however, and the guilt would eat him alive if he kept that up. Shiro had saved him and, with it, sacrificed himself. Matt wished he could stop himself from thinking about it, but he knew that the probability of his friend having met his end in the arena was high.

Matt could not keep himself from remembering the heartbroken look in Shiro’s eyes. The guilt reflected in them, the apology, and the fear. He saw those eyes every time he closed his own.

He did not want to see the memory. He did not want to think about Shiro – he wanted him, here, in the flesh.

Matt chuckled – it was selfish no matter how he looked at it. But if he did not think about Shiro, then he involuntarily conjured up all manners of cruelty that could have been done to his father.

And if he was not preoccupied with either of them, then his mother and Katie would haunt his mind.

The thoughts terrified Matt, so he held on to the one memory that brought him some solace. One of the aliens, an oddly blue one with four glowing eyes, -- back when they still understood one another --, had sung a lullaby for the prisoners. She did not have the prettiest of voices, but eventually, Matt had coaxed everyone into singing along.

When the translators had been turned off, Matt heard the song for what it was: haunting wails that Matt could only compare to howling wind back on Earth.

Everyone had soon stopped singing.

Matt had not thought about the song again until he was in solitude, where he started singing it by himself. The words were off, he did not remember them perfectly, and his voice was awful. Even to himself.

Now, he decided, was the perfect opportunity to give it another shot. And if a druid happened to hear it, Matt hoped it would make the Galra’s ears bleed.

He hesitated only slightly before he decided to throw his doubts in the wind, and sang as loud as he could manage. It still was nothing more than a hoarse whisper, but Matt counted it as a personal victory.

Matt did not know when exactly he had fallen asleep, but the odd sense of missed time in his mind told him he must have at some point. (And so did the drool on his cheek).

He straightened himself, his bones popping in protest. A lifetime ago he would have been annoyed, first, and then curious as to what had woken him up. Now he simply feared what his captors had in store for him next, as there simply was no other explanation for the Galra to bother him.

Matt cringed at the thought. It sounded weak.

His paranoia was not wholly unwarranted, however, as the doors indeed did slide upon with a mechanical tuft of released air. Matt’s breath hitched in his throat and he jumped to his feet. His leg ached. Matt felt his knee losing the strength to hold him up, but he managed to use the wall behind him to balance himself.

Yes, heh – no. Matt was not going to cooperate with that. Whatever he wanted, if whoever of significant importance was closely involved enough that a druid would come to get Matt, then Matt wanted no part in it even more so than usual.

He pushed himself further against the wall and snarled at the Galra. If the Galra thought Matt would have given up by now… then they were – admittedly - not too far off.

The druid raised a hand and Matt gasped. The air around him bore a sudden feeling of enhanced gravity which had not been there before. Matt fell to his knees, then flat on his stomach.

He could not breathe.

The atmosphere was too heavy and oppressive for his ribcage to properly expand and let air in. Like a hot, smothering blanket, a weight wrapped itself around Matt’s body, forcing him still.

Matt tried to gasp for air unsuccessfully. The scientist within him theorised that druids could only use this technique under certain strict circumstances (– the density of the atmosphere, the square meter of the room, whether it was enclosed or not -), because, if not, conquering would have been even more child’s play than it already currently was for the Galra. The human part of him (“Scientists aren’t human,” Katie laughed), which he knew was slipping away from him the longer he remained in captivity, was crying out. His lungs burned, the blood in the veins of his temple was pounding and his eyes were rolling back.

Matt wanted to cough or gurgle the saliva slowly seeping from the corners of his mouth. He even would have welcomed it if he had been able to vomit.

And yet, no sound or motion came from him. Matt saw black creeping up from the edges of his vision, but the weight was still not lifted.

Had the Galra finally had enough? No, surely his execution was not worthy of a druid’s time. Instead, it seemed Matt’s cooperation truly was not necessary for whatever they had planned for him.

The less Matt was able to see, the more he was convinced that even his consciousness was irrelevant. He fought to stay awake, but the fact that he had been panicking from the moment he had woken up proved detrimental for the effort of preserving the remaining air in his lungs.

Matt blacked out for a second before he realised he was gasping for breath without his prompting. Matt hackled and rose to lean on his hands, hoping the position would allow for more air to enter his lungs.

Matt did not care for the lingering pains in his arms, as it compared nothing to the terror of what had happened that was occupying his mind. He could have died. He could have died, just like that, as if all he had gone through before this had meant nothing at all.

That upset Matt more than he thought it would. Just how insignificant had the horrors he went through been?

He looked up, one eye closed, as he kept on gasping for air. The druid was still there, head tilted like a curious cat.

Matt slowly got up and limped towards the door. He saw no other way out, so he figured he might as well get it over with quickly.

Matt did not believe the truth beneath the reasoning either. What the druid had done just now had simply just erased all thoughts of the passive rebellion he did not know he still harboured.

Matt often feared that he would have given up completely if it were not for his family who was still out there – his father, ( _don’t think about it!_ ) alive in space, his mother and sister, safe and most likely worried sick on Earth.

Matt had to hand it to them, after all. The Galra were good at breaking the resolve of their captives. Matt had seen plenty of prisoners freeze up when their friends or even their family were being taken away, despite knowing they would never return.

Matt’s only hope - that did not feel faked - was that he would fight back the moment the Galra would come for his father or Shiro.

(Though he had already failed in that regard, had he not?)

And Shiro…

Shiro, who had saved him from the arena. Shiro, with whom Matt had spent nights stargazing when they should have been cramming for their respective exams. The one who had been deadly serious when he told Matt that he would meet aliens before him, effectively challenging Matt’s lifelong dream. The same person who had laughed uncontrollably when Matt was chased out of Shiro and Adam’s room when Adam had found the misplaced dead bugs underneath the wrong pillow. It would have been intimidating if Adam had worn anything besides the neon-coloured shirt that said, ‘dangerous grump’.

Giving up seemed disrespectful to Shiro’s sacrifice. And if that turned out to be the only reason why he was still ticking at the end of it all - well, Matt would not complain. Any reason was good enough.

Matt looked at the druid he passed. The door closed behind him and the druid began to walk down the hall, obviously expecting Matt to follow without another incident.

Matt did just that because he saw no other option. He felt a shiver run down his spine and he wished himself whatever Lady Luck could afford him.

But he had the feeling he was not her priority.

The druid did not speak as he led Matt through the corridors. Matt had a hard time keeping up, his leg flaring up at each step. He growled in frustration: there was no way he stood a chance against a common Galra soldier. Let alone a druid.

As per habit, he counted his steps and tried to map the layout of his surroundings. It was slightly unnerving how the druid made no sound, no footsteps, as they moved to their destination. Matt found it easier to concentrate after his short nap, and being able to walk on his own (he would accept the pain) did wonders for his internal map. When they stood before the room they supposedly needed to go, Matt was fairly sure he would theoretically be able to return to his cell on his own.

The doors opened and the druid stepped aside. Matt walked inside cautiously and froze up. There was a single operator table in the centre of the room. Around it there were monitors, transparent holders with vials, and great glass containers: some filled with a yellow liquid, others glowing an ominous purple. The latter felt wrong to Matt, somehow. In combination with his overall anxiety around druids, it bade nothing good.

There were two other druids inside. Both were dressed considerably different from the ones Matt was used to. One was hunched forward, hooded, and obscured from Matt’s vision. Matt did see that the robed druid was smaller than most Galra. The druid was either a runt or not a full-blooded Galra. Either option was unusual for such a high-ranked position, and Matt was puzzled for what the implication could mean.

The other Galra did pay attention to Matt’s arrival. The druid wore the same masks as other druids, but the attire was tighter around the druid’s body, more resembling armour than robes. Though it was decorative, the suit was lean but padded, and dark enough to pose for camouflage.

The druid walked forward, towering over Matt as all Galra did. He grabbed Matt’s chin, but with the size of his hand, he nearly covered the entirety of Matt’s submandibular area.

Matt refused to react to what was an obvious assessment of his physique. It was like second nature at this point. What did make him wonder, however, was the fact that the druid had touched him, albeit with gloves between their skins.

Other druids, or other Galra in general, had avoided physical contact as much as was possible. Their interaction on that front with him had been to drag or push him along, at most. This druid, however, had not hesitated for a second to invade his personal space, grab him, move his head around, and study him up-close. The idea was highly uncomfortable, and it made Matt feel trapped.

Soon enough the Galra was done with him. The druid straightened his posture. “To the table,” he said. The other druid gestured for Matt obey. The obvious hierarchical difference made Matt raise his eyebrow. The hunched druid had not looked up from the monitor, but the occasional pauses told Matt that the druid was keeping tabs on the situation.

As Matt reluctantly moved to the centre of the room, he cast a glance at the druid’s screen. From what he sees and what little he could understand, Matt determined the druid was working on something unrelated to what was happening here. (The druid was working too diligently and rapidly for it to be last-minute calibrations or a final check-up, and the druid had no results on whatever the Galra were going to do to Matt yet, so that could not have been it, either).

Matt realised that the druid was likely a subordinate, or a student, whereas the other strange Galra was the commander of this project. Matt had not previously heard of a ranking system in the druid order, aside from the High Priestess. The prisoners who had informed him were not that knowledgeable, and the soldiers were more tight-lipped than Matt had originally assumed.

The high-ranked druid signalled with his arm and turned around. (He had a tail! Galra can have tails?) The Galra that had led Matt to this place cast a meaningful look between him and the table. Matt frowned, but climbed on top of it and laid down. He hated having to comply with the druids’ whims, but he knew he had no choice in the matter.

The Galra had made that clear to him plenty of times before.

The armoured druid came back and cupped the side of Matt’s head in his hand. Again, Matt was surprised (and frightened) by the lack of distance the Galra put between himself and his subject. Far too gently, Matt’s head was adjusted to expose his neck. Matt saw a syringe filled with glowing purple substance in the corners of his vision and he shivered. The druid pierced Matt’s skin and emptied the contents in his vein.

Matt squirmed in discomfort but did not let out a noise. He lowered his chin when he was released and warily glared at the druid. Countless questions were forming in his mind. But, most of all, Matt was scared.

All too soon, Matt felt what he assumed to be the very first effects of the injection. He tried to breathe through the tightening of his throat. Oddly enough, Matt could feel how his body rose in temperature. Unlike with a fever, Matt felt warmth flowing underneath his skin, which increasingly spread throughout his body, travelling inwards to his organs. The warmth became heat and soon began to feel like a scourge. Breathing became more and more difficult and painful, and Matt could no longer stop the beginnings of gasps and moans coming out of his mouth. When purple sparks began to emanate through his skin, Matt could not mask his pain. He screamed.

At this point, Matt was both unaware of his surroundings as well as hyperaware. On one hand, he did not know what was going on around him, at the same time, he felt connected and grounded to his body in a way he had never before. Distantly, he was worried for his vocal cords: the screams he let out did not resemble his natural voice and the frequency of the sounds were not those a human would normally be capable of.

The corners of his vision glowed. Matt began to cry.

Then a searing pain came from his injured leg, and Matt his lost control and awareness. When Matt slightly came down to himself, he was still and unmoving. He registered some sort of audible electric charging, though the sound was not similar enough for it to be that particular occurrence.

Matt felt his eyes fall closed, though he had not been able to see anything for quite some time. His body became limp before Matt realised he was going to pass out.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is the introduction to a (slow updating) AU with a focus on prisoner/soldier Matt Holt, and Keith, a hybrid druid. 
> 
> Come bother me on twitter or tumblr: @munchingtin


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